He turned on the interior light and held up his hands. Cut and bruised, knuckles swollen, they were sticky with dried blood. His stomach bottomed out.
Whose blood?
His legs tightened with the urge to run. The back seat and truck bed were empty. That was a relief. His vehicle was the only one in sight.
He rummaged through the junk in the center console and found his anxiety meds. Three pills were still left. He hadn’t popped more than the prescribed dosage, which meant the pills hadn’t caused his blackout.
How long had he been out?
Same amount of time he’d blacked out after Lily ran away? He’d been under for almost twelve hours, and he’s hated himself since.
Lucas forced a deep breath and his hands blurred and vision went foggy. He slapped his cheeks. Stay awake.
What had happened? His mind raced.
He remembers his old man working the bar, schmoozing and canoodling, downing one finger of Blue Label after another. The guy had been wasted, and as Lucas watched him, years of pent-up rage brewed inside until he felt like he’d been burned alive.
He remembers Dwight finally picked a bed buddy and escorted the lithe creature half his age up to his room. Lucas hadn’t blamed the blonde. Dwight was a catch. Wealthy, by all appearances, charismatic, and fitter than the average man in his early sixties. Dwight was skilled at letting others see what he wanted them to see rather than what lurked underneath the surface: a narcissistic asshole on the brink of bankruptcy who didn’t give two shits about anyone but himself.
Lucas had waited outside Dwight’s hotel room for the woman to leave. Dwight never let them stay the night. He didn’t like his indiscretions staring him in the face the following morning. He preferred to start his days with a clean slate. A blank scorecard.
Blondie had finally left, and as soon as the elevator doors closed on her, Lucas had knocked on Dwight’s door.
He clearly remembers his old man’s look of surprise to find him standing there and not the midnight snack that had just left. He recalls forcing his way inside and closing the door behind him, flipping the bolt. The first punch had surprised them both. His fist connected with Dwight’s jaw before he’d realized he swung.
One for Lily.
Dwight never should have scared her away. Lucas should have gone after her. Would he have if he hadn’t blacked out?
Dwight’s head had lurched back with the impact of Lucas’s fist. He stumbled backward.
Lucas advanced, throwing the second punch.
“That’s for cheating on Mom.”
Dwight had dropped onto the chair, his momentum tipping it over. He crashed to the floor and his old man’s legs flipped over his head until he lay sprawled on the ground. He started laughing maniacally.
“Shut up,” Lucas growled.
Dwight lifted his head. “I’m the cheater? That what she told you? She’s been cheating on me since we married.” He laughed again, his forehead dropping back to the floor.
“Stop lying.” Lucas flipped Dwight onto his back. He squeezed Dwight’s throat, out of control. “You’re a sick motherfucker.” Charlotte would never cheat. Dwight’s affairs tore her up.
“What are you doing?” Dwight gargled. He inhaled a ragged breath, struggling for air. He clawed at Lucas’s hand.
“Remember when I was attacked in juvie? Remember when you wouldn’t press charges? You wanted everything to go away? Well, it’s your turn to go away.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Dwight gasped.
“Need to knock some sense into you. Maybe you’ll remember then.”
This one’s for me.
He punched him again. Gratification pulled his mouth into a sneer. Years Dwight held back his love until Lucas, humiliated, stopped asking and acting out for it.
“Don’t fucking come home. Ever. When Mom sends you the divorce papers, sign them,” Lucas ordered, spittle raining on Dwight’s face.
The last thing Lucas recalls before coming to in his truck was pummeling Dwight’s face. He was shaking all over, sitting in his truck, parked on the side of the road. It was half-past three in the morning, so he’d only blacked out a couple hours.
He reached for the gym towel in the back seat and soaked it with water, emptying the plastic bottle. It bounced to the floor. He wiped the blood off his hands and almost threw the soiled towel out the window.
That’s evidence.
The warning seethes in his head.
He stuffed the towel into his gym bag and threw open his door. He needed air.
The night was cool and he was sweating. He fanned his shirt. God, his back was on fire.